


Back to Me

by theLazarus



Category: Def Leppard
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mentions of Substance Abuse, very unoriginal i know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28360821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theLazarus/pseuds/theLazarus
Summary: I wished I could see him smile. How’d we go from kissing all night, devouring each other with the most insatiable hunger and love, rolling around in bed and laughing, hands all over each other, to this? How did it keep happening?
Relationships: Steve Clark & Phil Collen, Steve Clark/Phil Collen
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Back to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a gift for brokenrose, as part of 2020's A Very Kinky Rockfic Ficmas Fest. The prompt was 'Steve Clark,Phil Collen (Def Leppard): A N G S T.'
> 
> This is my first Phil/Steve fic and my first ever first-person narrative slash fic so I really hope it's not a disappointment. I know it's not original for the angst between these two to stem from Steve's drinking, so I'm optimistic that the focus on their actual dynamic will be more rewarding to read. I don't write angst often but I always have a great time when I do and this fic was no exception.
> 
> Partially inspired by the song "From Eden" by Hozier.

_Honey, you're familiar like my mirror years ago_

_Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on its sword_

_Innocence died screaming, honey, ask me I should know_

_I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door_

\--

“Please just talk to me.” I didn’t want to sound like I was groveling but the--and I hated to even think it--pathetic state of Steve made it difficult not to. He was sober, actually. I knew that much since we’d spend the whole night together and he knew better than to get into it around me, but he was hunched over the arm of the couch, facing away from me, with grey smoke coming up in whispers from beyond the pale blonde crown of hair. 

I saw his long fingers take hold of the cigarette from between his lips before he spoke: “I don’t want to talk.”

“Yes, you do,” I said, putting one hand on his shoulder. I knew he didn’t, but I still had to try, not only for his sake but for my own. I winced when he flinched, his shoulder blade visibly shifting underneath his t-shirt and his elbow jutting forward from the abrupt action--it hurt me to see that, to feel him recoil from just that. Instinctively I went to touch him again but thought better of it, and my hands remained in midair as I added, quite pitifully: “Please?” 

“What’s there to talk anymore about?” he asked, actually turning halfway to give me a view of his profile. I could tell his brow was furrowed but his mouth was in a frown, more sad than angry, and the long, pale lashes fanned down to the floor as he spoke. “I keep fucking up. I dunno why any of you even bother anymore. I don’t know why I bother anymore.”

I frowned too. I tentatively reached out again, gently pressing my fingers to his shoulder; when he didn’t flinch or turn away, I slunk my arm around him. He sighed and leaned back, whispers of that silky blonde hair tickling my skin. “We bother because we all care about you. Come on,” I urged, starting to lean back against the couch and taking him with me. “We love you. <>I love you.”

Steve abruptly shifted away. “You pity me,” he said through clenched teeth and the obstruction of the cigarette that was back in his mouth. 

That was the furthest thing from the truth and I knew, somewhere inside, in some place he couldn’t quite reach yet, Steve knew that too. I had to be patient--it had been years of patience. I could manage another day. “How do you think I pity you?” I asked as gently as I could. At least he was talking.

“I see it,” Steve declared, whipping his head around. The cigarette was almost to the butt and I wondered if he was going to try and smoke it straight through the filter. “I see it when Joe looks at me like I’m a lost puppy; I see it when Sav turns away because he’s done with me, he doesn’t know what to say.” He took a drag and exhaled the smoke hastily. “Rick doesn’t know either. I know they’ve tried.”

“I don’t know how to get it through to you that none of us pity you.” I leaned back, suddenly very uncomfortable on the corduroy couch and doing my best not to squirm too much. “Least of all me. I really wish you could believe that.” I wanted to hold him so badly, to be enough of a comfort and safety for him to let it go and cry and pour everything out. I felt like I knew the answer, but I asked anyway: “Do you really not know how much I love you? That I’d do anything for you?”

Finally Steve stamped the cigarette out in the ashtray and shoved it back on the coffee table, the sound of glass scraping against wood almost making me jump. “I know you love me.” He turned his body on the couch, back against the arm, and curled his knees to his chest. “I don’t understand _why_.”

So many reasons. I shrugged and said, “We were meant to be.” 

Steve frowned again. “You should be with someone better.”

I wished I could see him smile. How’d we go from kissing all night, devouring each other with the most insatiable hunger and love, rolling around in bed and laughing, hands all over each other, to this? How did it keep happening? 

“I don’t want to be with anyone else,” I said, and it wasn’t the only time I’d ever said that. “I want to be with you. I want to--” I almost said ‘help you’ but Steve hated that, and maybe that was fair of him to hate. And that wasn’t the only thing I wanted. “Be by your side.” I managed a little smile and added, “We’re the Terror Twins, right?”

A fraction of a smile curled on Steve’s lips. “Right.” 

“So please--” I began, the word ‘help’ coming to mind again, but I bit it back. The alternative was more real, anyway. It’s what I’d wanted to do, uninterrupted, wholly and deeply, for so long. “Let me love you.”

His whole face fell--his eyes looked down again, the corners of his mouth drooped, and he sunk further into himself. I could see it physically, how he tucked his knees between his circled arms, but also inside, with that perpetual shadow casting itself through his heart. It was too easy to tell these days. 

“You shouldn’t have to have me _let_ you,” he mumbled against his forearm. “I should just--” He trailed off and sighed.

He looked so fragile, so broken. I held my arm out: “Steve--come here. Please.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said and the mumbled words made it feel like my heart cracked. His long limbs moved faster than my mind could process and then he was standing up and turning away again. “I should go.”

“Steve,” I pleaded, louder than I’d hoped, suddenly on the verge of hysterics. What the hell was he doing? Why was he doing this now? My desperation turned to aggravation and the next words came out harsh: “Don’t you dare.”

He was already getting his jacket, already shoving the pack of cigarettes into his pocket. “Now you’re angry with me. See?” He wouldn’t look at me, which made it so much worse. “I should just leave.”

“No, you should stay,” I said quickly. I felt stuck on the couch even with him preparing to go. What else could I do except beg? “You should stay. We don’t even have to talk, I just--” I felt even more frantic as he put his jacket on, still not looking at me. “You should stay because I need you too, Steve.”

He looked at me then, soft blue eyes so sad, like the sky within them had been made utterly grey. “Phil, you don’t need me. At least not right now.” He flicked his eyes away again and fumbled in his jacket pocket for the cigarettes. “I’ll be back later.”

I knew what that meant. “No, Steve.” I managed to stand up and follow him as he strode to the door, and captured him from behind with my arms around his skinny chest and shoulders, standing on tip-toe to do it successfully. I pressed my cheek against his nape. “Just stay, please. I don’t want you to come back like--”

Steve exhaled through the smoke; I ignored it coming back in plumes against my face. “Don’t say it, Phil.” He tilted his head to the side, letting his hair brush over my nose, but I couldn’t see his expression. “I’ll be back, alright?” 

I knew he would be. That wasn’t the issue. The issue was, I knew _how_ he would come back--a disheveled, inebriated, sniveling mess, refusing all care, belittling our love, my love, to nothing but pity. It was wrong. He was wrong. But I let him go, because love shouldn’t be suffocating. It shouldn’t be chains. 

I always had to remind myself--Steve too, though he wouldn’t listen--that we would all be there to pick him up again. The biggest comfort, though, was me knowing that, even if he came back a mess, he would still come back to me.


End file.
